


The Strokemaker

by Callisto



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You could come, you know.”</p>
<p>Doyle turned from the window, mug in hand. The vision in white had its feet up on the kitchen table and was balancing a round of toast precariously. Truth be told, a day off together and the sun shining was pulling at Doyle something rotten. But there were things to consider. They were still breaking in this new aspect to their partnership, for one. Watching Bodie play cricket – and on a Sunday no less - seemed...well, too <i>together</i> not to be tempting fate in some way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strokemaker

_A strokemaker is a batsman that is attractive to watch, and plays stylish shots."  
-A to Z of cricket terms-_

“You could come, you know.”

Doyle turned from the window, mug in hand. The vision in white had its feet up on the kitchen table and was balancing a round of toast precariously. Truth be told, a day off together and the sun shining was pulling at Doyle something rotten. But there were things to consider. They were still breaking in this new aspect to their partnership, for one. Watching Bodie play cricket – and on a Sunday no less - seemed...well, too _together_ not to be tempting fate in some way.

Plus, there was the cricket itself. Bodie in white from head to toe and all athletic when no one was chasing him always made Doyle’s jeans too tight. But the game itself bored him stupid. When Bodie wasn’t at the crease or bowling, it was all he could do not to fake an emergency call from HQ and get them out of there as fast as possible. 

Still...

He studied the man in front of him. “And give up a perfectly good Sunday?”

It was the expected response, after all.

“What giving up? You’d be watching cricket. And me. The light of your life.”

Bodie was busy grinning around a mouthful of jam and toast and not busy noticing the tilt of his plate. Doyle opened his mouth, then thought he really should take the small pleasures in life where he could. So he smiled back and most definitely did not look when Bodie’s breakfast began its inevitable slide.

“Shit!” Bodie catapaulted his legs off the table so fast the jam had nowhere to go but further down the pristine white jumper it had landed on. Bodie scrubbed furiously at the growing stain with the heel of his hand, so Doyle put down his tea to enjoy it all properly.

“Mate, stop. You’re just rubbing it in.”

“Ah, Doy-ul...”

As if it was Doyle’s fault. With a shake of his head Doyle turned to the sink to run some water through a cloth. He squeezed it out and resisted the urge to slap it on Bodie’s head first. As it was, Bodie seemed to be sitting there waiting for Doyle to lean in like some kind of mother and take care of the mess he’d made. Doyle dropped the the wet cloth in Bodie’s lap. “I am not that far gone, Bodie. Do the honours yourself.”

Bodie made a few ineffectual passes at the jam, turning it to a vague pink, and then lobbed the cloth into the sink. “Ruined, mate. Bloody ruined.”

He looked so ridiculously forlorn, the words were out of Doyle’s mouth before he’d thought them through. “Just play without it, you twat. It’s warm enough. And we’ll come back before dark anyway, because win or lose we are not staying for that pathetic tea and bloody awful recap of every silly mid-wicket stumped and whatnot.”

He tried glaring, but Bodie was having none of it, already starting to smile again. “We?”

“God help me, yes. We. What?”

Bodie had pushed back his chair and was advancing on Doyle, looking much too pleased with himself. His hands found Doyle’s hips and he leaned in, nuzzling Doyle’s neck. “Love it when you talk cricket, Doyle. Turns me on something rotten. I’ll score a century for you, you’ll see.”

Doyle’s hand found the back of Bodie’s neck, rather liking the warm press of Bodie’s lips right there. He tilted his head and let it rest against his partner’s, just for a second. “Yeah, well,” he said, resigned to his fate. “Just don’t take a century to do it.” 

 

Six hours later – six hours, Bodie! – and Bodie’s far from pristine whites were a mess on Doyle’s carpet. Doyle had paused exactly two seconds to lock the front door before stripping Bodie out of them with ruthless efficiency. Bodie had half-heartedly tried to say ‘shower’, but Doyle had spent the last hour stupidly turned on and was not to be swayed. Bodie, the bastard, had been last in to bowl, and watching his partner power down on unsuspecting batsmen had taken Doyle from bored stiff to embarrassingly stiff in no time at all. He’d thought the last “howzat” would never come. 

And yet here they were, cricket tea successfully avoided in favour of a takeout wating to be warmed up in the oven and Bodie, cool-skinned and naked above Doyle on the bed.

“Bodie...” Doyle arched helplessly, hands roaming over all that beautiful, beautiful skin. Lust hit him, a tidal wave of it, filling his cock and his heart and suddenly he was absolutely sure what he wanted. “Fuck me,” he breathed, framing Bodie’s face with his hands. “Just...fuck me, yeah?”

Bodie stopped moving, eyes searching Doyle’s. Handjobs and blowjobs aside, they’d only fucked the once. Each had been roaring drunk and they’d never spoken of it. Doyle was under no illusions of what it would mean if they fucked now, stone cold sober, and with Doyle on his back spread wide and asking. No more mates helping each other get off, no more wordless handjobs for when a bird didn’t show up. This was right up there with pyjamas in a drawer, kissing on the mouth, and forsaking all others.

Heart hammering, Doyle ran his hands down Bodie’s neck to his shoulders as the moment stretched. Doyle swallowed. Shit, if he’d read this wrong...

Bodie kissed him hard, angling Doyle’s jaw just right as he hunted Doyle’s tongue with his own. Bereft when Bodie pulled back, Doyle let him go when he realised why. He closed his eyes, heard the snap of a cap, and a moment later felt a delicious burn when Bodie nudged his legs apart and pressed a slippery finger in.

“You...you sure about this, Ray?”

Doyle lifted up to bite Bodie’s collarbone in answer. He grunted and let go, panting a little more when a second finger went in. Bodie sucked a bruise into the skin under Doyle's jaw as he began to move his fingers, crooking and stroking, until Doyle thought he might come there and then. He pressed Bodie's face into his neck with a gasp when a third finger pushed in, Bodie’s cock a hot and heavy rub across his skin.

“Bodie,” he managed, his voice strained and desperate. “Fuck me. _Christ_.” He reached blindly between them, found Bodie’s erection. Bodie groaned and hung his head, his hips rolling into Doyle’s grip helplessly.

“C’mon, sunshine,” panted Doyle, twisting his wrist a little. “Let’s get this...show on the road, shall we?”

Bodie raised his head and Doyle grabbed his face again, pulling him in for a kiss. Bodie crooked his fingers one last time, then he tugged Doyle down the bed and more onto his lap as he lined himself up. One last look between them, one last nod from Doyle, and Bodie began an excruciating slide in. All the air squeezed out of Doyle’s lungs. It was tight, full, strange, and bloody wonderful. 

“Ray?” Bodie paused, leaning over and shaking on locked elbows above him.

Ray patted his cheek clumsily. He moved his hips, just a fraction. “'M fine. I’m beautiful. Don’t...don’t stop. Just start...ah...fucking move, Bodie. _Move_.”

Slow at first, as if Doyle would somehow break or repel him, Doyle took matters into his own hands. He locked his legs around Bodie’s waist, urging him on. “Watchin’ you…all day. Bowling an’...an’ batting. Couldn’t...fuckin’ touch...”

“Ray...”

“What?”

“Fuckin’...touching me now.”

Doyle swore when his cock rubbed tantalisingly against Bodie’s stomach. His legs splayed wider on instinct and Bodie took his cue, rolling and snapping his hips in a devastating rhythm, arms locked magnificently. Doyle wrapped a hand around his own cock and tilted up, using his heels for leverage. There it was, delicious sparks on every push in that almost, almost...

“C’mon...Bowl me...the fuck... _over_. Christ.”

One last graze across his prostate and Doyle was gone, hauling Bodie down as his rhythm faltered and come slicked their skin. Doyle was dimly aware of Bodie struggling back up to twist and piston in even deeper, and then liquid warmth spilled and spilled, all the way to his heart. Arm lock suddenly broken, Bodie fell and Doyle caught him, holding fast.

Moments passed, the only real movement Doyle’s hands as they smoothed a path along Bodie’s back. Bodie’s breathing was slowing, hot and damp into Doyle’s neck. Doyle bit down gently on Bodie’s earlobe. “Didn’t break anything, did I?” That got him a snort, which made him shiver. He squeezed the skin under his hands and Bodie groaned, warm and muffled.

“Not likely, sunshine,” said Bodie. He raised his head, cheeks flushed for once, hair a wonderful mess. “Hello, you,” he said quietly. He shifted his weight and traced a finger down Doyle’s nose. 

“Bodie...”

“Bowl me over, Doyle?”

It was Doyle’s turn to groan. “God. It was...something to say, all right?”

“No, no, no. You told me to bowl you over, Doyle. Heat of the moment and all that, I grant you, but you,” he flicked Doyle’s nose, a delighted grin on his face, “spoke to me in cricket, mate. No wonder the bedposts shook." 

“Fuck off, Bodie. Like cricket had anything to do with that.” But it was lazy and warm, and Doyle could no more scowl than he could mind being made fun of. “Slip of the tongue, won’t happen again.”

“Yeah? Sure about that, are we?” Bodie framed his face there on the pillow with both hands while the solid weight of him settled along Doyle from chest to toe. “Because I happen to think another slip of the tongue should be coming _up_ ,” he paused, the bastard, to flex his hips, right to where Doyle’s cock was already starting to twitch, “right about...any...second...now.” All punctuated by Bodie kiss-biting his way down Doyle’s chest, his stomach, his hips...

Bodie’s mouth finally stopped moving, and Doyle knew in an instant his life was going to be full of more cricket on Sundays than he’d ever thought possible. 

And bat to balls, he was fucking _in_.

Literally.


End file.
